


Hit The Ground Running

by 74days



Series: Meet-Cute AU's [39]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Cosplay, First Meetings, M/M, Meet-Cute, Nerds in Love, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Skinny Steve, Star Trek References, zombie run
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-15
Updated: 2015-05-15
Packaged: 2018-03-30 17:52:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3946081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/74days/pseuds/74days
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve's just walking home. At midnight. Alone and trying not to get mugged.<br/>The Zombie was unexpected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hit The Ground Running

Steve pulled at the drawstring of his hoodie and shivered. He’d thrown his dad’s old leather jacket over the top of it when he left, but he’d misjudged how cold it could get at night, when the sun dropped down below the skyscrapers and Brooklyn was just a mass of dark corners and street lights. His gloves were in his pocket, but putting them on would mean stopping and trying not to spill the bag of groceries he was carrying, and he’d rather just get home faster – the streets were eerily quiet, considering it had only just gone past midnight, rows of parked cars and empty sidewalks.

His apartment wasn’t too far away from the store if he cut through the alleyways that made up that part of Brooklyn. The economy might be getting better, but there were still a lot of empty buildings and weird night sounds as he walked, puffs of air visible for a few seconds as he breathed. Somewhere in the distance, a car backfired, and he could hear someone yell – lost in the echoes of the empty street. Further away, a siren. Even when it was deathly still, New York was still alive – and Steve loved it.

Slipping between what had once been a garage and an indie coffee shop, Steve heard the sound of running feet. Night joggers, he thought, shaking his head as he walked. Crazy assholes.

Every now and then, Steve thought about getting fit. He had a pair of running shoes in the bottom of his closet, and all the jogging clothing he would ever need, worn once. Normally by the time he got to the park, he was already exhausted – and even if he did make it there without feeling like every breath was trying to kill him, his skinny legs and spun sugar lungs would soon show him the error of his ways. Steve Rogers was never meant to run. Or Jog. Or do any kind of fitness at all.

Someone else ran past the opening of the alley he was walking down, arms pumping and breathing deep. He saw the flash of a reflective armband before they disappeared. Well, at least they were visible to cars.

Three blocks away from his apartment, Steve heard something. There was a multi-level short stay carpark on the other side of the road, lit up to show a few cars and not much else. The barrier was down, but that didn’t mean much. He heard it again, and his step faltered. A groan.

Not a ‘hey baby, $50 and a dark alley I can make your night’ type of groan. Not even a ‘I really shouldn’t have started on the shots, my poor liver’ type of groan. He started to walk faster. He was only three blocks from his apartment. He’d made it through his whole life without being killed in a dark alley (He’d been beat up in more than one, but that wasn’t the point) and he really didn’t plan on being killed carrying a bag of groceries three goddamn blocks from his (safe) apartment.

Another groan. This one a whole helluva lot closer.

Someone ran past. Legs pumping fast, not a jogger – a flat out run. He could see a smear of something red on the back of their jacket, dark and wet and…

“Hey!” He called out, but the runner didn’t stop, didn’t even look over their shoulder, and just ran faster. He could see a yellow reflective strip on their arm, but the bloody handprint on their jacket was holding his attention. It looked like someone had tried to grab them. Someone with blood on their hands. He started to walk faster. Three blocks.

Another groan, and this time,  ** _much_**  closer. The streetlight over his head flickered ominously, went out. Steve’s heard thudded in his chest. He couldn’t hear anything but his own, laboured breath and the thrumming of his heart in his ears. Behind him, something whispered.

Steve wasn’t sure why he turned around. It felt like the whole world was suddenly in slow motion, time passing like molasses. He turned, and saw…

A man.

Or at least…

A man shaped…

He screamed, bag of groceries hitting the sidewalk with a crash. The… thing… standing on front of him was…

Steve ran.

Steve wasn’t a fit person, after a few moments he could feel his thighs burning with the strain, lungs franticly trying to draw in air that he gulped down in heaving breaths. His feet slapped against the sidewalk too loudly, painfully.

Behind him, someone was yelling, but Steve wasn’t going to take the risk to look over his shoulder. He was only three blocks from his apartment. Three blocks – three blocks.

His mind was full of the… face… of the… thing… chasing him. Bloodied and mangled, one eye sewn shut with thick black thread, matted, bloody hair – a stump where an arm should be – mouth and lips torn and bleeding. Steve’s steps faltered. He’d seen some shit in New York, some **_fucked up shit_** , but never anything like that. Two blocks.

Someone was yelling, and Steve’s steps faltered, his world tipped – toe catching on air. He was running too fast to save himself from the fall, the bone jarring smash of his body against the sidewalk.

Everything went black.

* * *

 

“Shit, oh shit.” Someone was saying, and Steve could feel someone trying to carefully move him. “Jesus, Mary mother of god. Please don’t be dead.” Steve could feel warmth on his lip, blood. His blood.

His eyes snapped open.

The… thing… was trying to move him. Steve’s lungs constricted, desperate for air, a strangled scream as he gasped for oxygen. Up close Steve could see the festering mess of the sewn up eye, the bloody mouth and torn skin. The smell of… cherry and wax. He started hyperventilating.

“Dude, dude, calm down!” The… thing said. “Calm down, it’s make-up, its fake, okay? It’s make-up!” It was the Brooklyn accent that got Steve’s attention. Unfortunately, he couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t calm his breaths.  “Shit, shit!” The… man?... said, looking around. “Jesus Christ, where are the first aiders?”

Steve was trying, trying so hard, to calm down. It looked like he’d been the butt of a really crazy prank, and he was starting to feel really stupid under the panic and pain. His hands hurt; he could feel the grains of dirt under the skin, where he’d tried to break his fall. He fumbled with his jacket, pain shooting up his wrists and making him wince, but he managed to pull out his inhaler. The… man… tried to help him to sit up, careful and slow.

It hurt to take and hold his breath, but three puffs later Steve could feel his lungs opening up. His heart was still hammering too loud, and everything – absolutely  ** _everything_**  – hurt.

“Dude, I am so fucking sorry. I thought you were in the race, man, I swear to god.” A pause. “Jesus, you’re bleeding pretty bad. Fuck.”

“What…?” Steve managed, before he started feel dizzy. He could breath, but it hurt so bad, his throat raw.

“It’s the Brooklyn Zombie Run.” The guy was saying. “Shit, man, I didn’t see your armband, and I thought you’d hid it, and then you dropped all your shit, and…” He groaned. “Shit, dude, I’m so fucking **_sorry_**.” He looked around again, but the streets were empty. “Can you sit up on your own? I need to phone an ambulance.”

“No!” Steve managed, loud enough that it echoed off the walls and bounced a few times before being sucked into the Brooklyn night. “I’m okay. I live…” He looked around. His building was in eye shot. He’d run further than he thought. “ ** _There_**.”

“Man, I think you need to see a doctor, okay? I mean, really, you’re bleeding, and you fell  ** _really_**  hard.”

“I’m okay.” Steve wheezed. “I can clean up at home.”

“You got someone to help you?”

“Yeah.” Steve lied, obviously not very convincingly, because the one eyed, one armed man, managed a look of pure disbelief. Which was impressive considering half his face was a mangled mess.

“Okay.” He said, after a while. “Lead the way.”

* * *

 

Steve tripped four times on the short walk to his building, head swimming dangerously once he was upright. If it hadn’t been for the arm hooked under his shoulder he was pretty sure he’d have landed on his ass. As it was, he managed a hobbled limp.

The guy, who was now so close to him that Steve could see that he wasn’t actually a terrifying mess of mangled skin sewn together, was wearing quite a lot of highly realistic make-up. Of course, he did appear to have lost an arm, so Steve wasn’t sure if the eye was real or not, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to ask.

“Zombie Run?” He managed after he’d needed to stop for some air. He was panting hard, still struggling to get a decent breath of air. The man holding him nodded. When he did that, Steve could see where the fake skin folded a little. It was likely that the sewn up eye was fake.

“Uh, yeah – it’s… it’s like a urban marathon slash…” He paused. “Slasher? Like, you sign up and you can be a zombie or a runner, and people raise money for various charities. It’s been going on for a few years, used to be pretty underground, but it’s gained a lot of popularity recently.” He paused. “This is my 7th.” He sounded proud.

“That sounds…” Steve wheezed. “Fun?”

“I know you’re kinda hurt and I gave you a fright, but I swear, it’s great.” He grinned, and the ‘tear’ in his lip was obviously fake. “If you  ** _know_**  that you’re going to be chased through the streets it’s awesome.” He stopped. “This you?”

Steves building was an old brownstone, and his apartment was on the third floor. Normally, the stairs wouldn’t be too much of an issue, but right now, the thought of it made him weak at the knees.

“Yeah.” He nodded. “Thanks.”

“I’m gonna see you up.” The guy said, sounding pretty stubborn about it. “No arguments, the quicker you’re inside, the quicker I’ll be outta your hair, okay?”

Steve nodded. He didn’t have the energy to argue at that point, and it would be nice to have a little help to get up the stairs.

It became apparent pretty quickly that Steve’s knees weren’t in the best of shape, every time he bent his leg to climb, he couldn’t hide the wince of pain, or the way he wobbled dangerously.

“Okay, dude, you can kill me later, yeah?” The guy said, before stopping dead in the middle of the stairwell.

Steve hardly had time to think before he was lifted bodily – his squeak of protest lost as his face was pushed against a hard (rather muscular) shoulder. “Sorry!” The guy said, giving a few half jumps to settle Steve in place, and started to climb the stairs like Steve didn’t weigh any more than a bag of sugar.

“Down!” Steve snapped, face pressed into the line of the guys neck. “Down!”

“Almost there.” The guy said, sounding not even a little out of breath. “Third floor you said, yeah? Here we are.”

Very gently Steve was set on his feet – and was caught again as his legs gave out from under him. “Dude, I really think that you should be at the hospital.”

His hands were shaking as he fished his keys out of his pocket, and in the end, the guy – Steve didn’t even know his name – took them from his bloody hands.

“Okay, punk, gotta let me do this now.” He said, gently pulling the keys from Steve shaking hands. “Come on.”

* * *

 

Steve’s apartment was clean, if a little messy. He’d been working on a new painting, and the massive canvas was standing against the far wall, dustsheets over everything and a weeks worth of coffee cups piled in the sink.

“Hey, dude, that’s Captain America,” the guy said when the lights were flicked on. “I fucking love that guy! I’ve got this tattoo, yeah, on… I  ** _had_**  this tattoo, right? On my arm. The wings off his helmet.” He paused. “It was pretty cool.”

“It’s for the Museum.” Steve admitted. “I do a lot of the art for there… um, they’re doing an exhibit.” Talking hurt though, and he could feel more blood on his face.

“Okay,” The guy said, “Uh, where’s the kitchen?”

A quick nod in the right direction, and Steve was being swept along. “Okay, you sit here,” The guy ordered. “I’m gonna get you cleaned up and then we can have an argument about the hospital.”

* * *

 

Soon, the first aid kit from the bathroom was spread out over the table, and a bowl of warm water was quickly turning pink as ‘Bucky’ carefully cleaned Steve up.

“So, it’s Steve, huh? I’m Bucky. I mean, my name is James, but cause pretty much everyone was called James when I was at school, Bucky just stuck. Natasha, that’s my best friend, she’d rather die than call me Bucky though.” He rolled his eye. Steve still wasn’t sure if the make-up was real or not. It was incredibly off putting to be patched up by one of the walking dead. Although he only had the one hand, he was quick and efficient at cleaning the worst of the blood and grit out of Steve’s cuts and grazes. “An the boys in my unit, they just called me Buck, or Sarge…” He stopped, picked up a new piece of cotton wool, and gently dried off Steve’s lip. “So I don’t recon that you’ve broken anything.” He said, lifting up Steve’s grazed hand. “But you look like hell. You got peas or something for your nose?”

Steve was nodding lazily. He was pretty tired, and felt like he could sleep for a thousand years.

“Yo, Steve? You wanna stay awake, okay?” Bucky was saying, and Steve nodded. “Okay, I’m gonna make a call, check in with my crew, okay?”

* * *

 

A few instants later, someone was touching Steve’s arm. “Hey, dude, you awake?”

“Yeah?” Steve asked, jerking back when he opened his eyes and saw... a zombie? He was sitting at his kitchen table and... oh, yeah... he’d fallen. The zombie was...

“You remember my name?”

“Buck?”

“Near enough.” The zombie-man shrugged. “Right, so, I called my buddy Sam and he figures you’ve got a concussion.”

Steve nodded. He was pretty sure he didn’t hit is head that hard, but he felt like shit and he wasn’t going to rule it out.

“Okay, so you’ve got two options. One, hospital.”

Steve shook his head franticly, which hurt like hell and made him groan, hands grabbing his head to stop it from spinning off.

“Yeah, I figured.” Zombie-Bucky said, “So what we’re going to do it get you dressed for bed, and I’m gonna wake you every hour for the next 12 hours.”

“You can’t do th-”

“I can call an ambulance?” The zombie said, holding up the phone, and Steve sighed.

“Look, I’ve managed not to get admitted this year.” Steve countered. “I’m pretty sure I’m just exhausted from the run, and the fall, and I’m sure you’ve got other things to do.”

“Nope.” Bucky said, his bloody lips smacking together. “Cleared my whole night.” He stepped back. “So, wanna get changed into something to sleep in?”

* * *

 

“Steve, hey dude.” Someone was touching his arm. Steve swatted them away. A warm laugh. “Stevie, you lil’ punk, you remember where you are?”

“I’m in bed and this is the 3rd time you’ve woke me up.” Steve groused, and got another laugh.

“Damn right.” The voice said. “I’m gonna jump in the shower, if that’s okay with you? My make-up’s starting to get gunky.”

“Knock yourself out.” Steve grumbled, rolling over, pointedly ignoring the hand that lingered over his forehead.

* * *

 

“Yo, Steve, gonna do a dash to the store, you want anything?”

“I want you to leave me alone!” Steve snapped. God, all he wanted to do was sleep. He was laying on his stomach, face aching but too tired to roll over. Everything hurt, and Bucky didn’t seem to be doing anything but **_constantly_** shaking him awake. “Can’t you just leave me alone for _5 minutes_?”

“Sure thing, you grumpy shit.” Bucky said, sounding more amused than he had before. “But the store, you want anything?”

“No!” He snapped, throwing a pillow. He was sure it fell short of its mark, going on the way he felt it hit the back on his legs at the bottom of the bed. Bucky snorted a laugh. Steve sighed. “Iced tea?”

“Gotcha.”

* * *

 

Steve was somewhere between awake and asleep. He was sore, but it was on the edge of his consciousness, and not quite breaking through the heavy weariness of his bones. He could hear Bucky talking on his phone, a low drone in the distance. He’d handed Steve some painkillers and some water about half an hour previous, and made a promise not to wake him for at least 2 hours because Steve was able to remember everything from through the night. Steve could remember throwing a fit every time Bucky woke him, because he was so fucking tired and sore – he was still too drowsy to feel guilty, but he knew that he was going to feel terrible when he was more awake. Bucky had given up his whole night to look after Steve and he’d been nothing but a total shit about it. But the painkillers were kicking in and Steve felt himself slip back under, sleep welcome.

* * *

 

Steve woke up to the smell of toast. It took him a few tries to sit up, mostly because his whole body was one giant ache, and rubbing his eyes made his nose hurt. He was wearing a pair of sleep pants and a faded t-shirt he normally used for painting in, but he didn’t feel as bad as he was expecting to, after the fall he had. Beside the bed there was a glass of water and two more pills, which he eyed cautiously. However, he was smart enough to know that if Bucky was going to kill him, he’d have had plenty of time through the night, and so far had been nothing short of a saint. Steve took the pills, and got to his feet. He could feel where his knees were grazed and stuck a little to the fabric of his pants, and winced when they pulled away from his skin with a little tug. His hands were scraped but clean, and didn’t look to be inflamed, so Bucky must have really got all the crap out of the cuts. He had a small mirror on the wall where he would brush his hair flat in the mornings, and his lip was swollen, a cut down the left side. His nose was one giant deep purple bruise, the tip scraped, lines of red over the skin. Damn. He looked like shit. The only good thing was that the cuts were clean and the skin, like his hands, wasn’t inflamed. The ointment Bucky had found must have worked to stop any infection.

He padded through the hall, the bones in his feet making little clicks for a few seconds before his joints got used to moving. Bucky was standing at the stove, back to the door, a small pile of toast on a plate, an open tub of butter with a knife sticking out of it. He had his mobile tucked between his shoulder and his ear, and Steve couldn’t believe that it had slipped his mind that Bucky had lost a limb. It seemed like the kind of thing he should have remembered. Perhaps it was how it didn’t seem to stop him from bossing Steve around, getting him into his pj’s and hustling him into bed.

“Hmmm.” Bucky said, grabbing the last of the bread out of the grill and tossing the slices onto the stack already on the plate. “I don’t think we’ve got time for Clint to change the light pack at this stage.” Bucky said after a second. “The mould is already made. Sam’ll cut a bitch if we have to modify it.” A few seconds passed. “Yeah? Well, if you think you can get the jumpsuits done by Thursday, then tell Sam you’ll do the mould again and I’ll re-spray the end result.” He listened to what the other person said and then laughed warmly. “Course you love me. Who **_doesn’t_** love me?” He sounded cocky and Steve found himself smiling a little. “Right, get back to work. I’m gonna wake sleeping beauty, then I’ll haul ass to the studio and I’ll finish painting the guns.” A pause. “Love you too, Becca.”

Steve smiled. Obviously Bucky had a good relationship with his girlfriend, which was something that you didn’t see too often. A lot of guys thought that saying ‘love you’ on the phone made them less of a man or something.

He was still smiling a little (a slight tug on the scab forming on his bottom lip) when Bucky hung up and turned.

Steve’s smile froze on his face.

He remembered everything from through the night. He remembered that Bucky had asked if he could take a shower, he remembered him telling Steve he was running home for a change of clothes. He remembered the way he had gently gripped his shoulder and woke him time (and time) again.

However, he most certainly didn’t remember him being so fucking  ** _gorgeous_**. Not just good looking, Steve knew a lot of good looking people, Bucky was gorgeous.  ** _Stunning_**. Way too hot to have spent his Friday night shaking Steve awake every hour or so. Oh Jesus, at one point Steve had been pretty insistent that Bucky go fuck himself.

“Ah, you’re awake!” Bucky grinned. He had a square jaw, full lips, eyes that had little lines when he smile, crinkling up adorably around deep navy eyes. Oh God. His hair was longer that Steve had thought, a glossy brown that he had casually swept to one side, looking a little like one of the models on the cover of a romance novel. Dressed in simple dark jeans and a screen-printed t-shirt that hugged some pretty nice muscles and socks… He looked like he spent most mornings in Steve’s kitchen, at ease and relaxed. There was a laptop on the counter that wasn’t Steve’s. There was also a prosthetic arm laid out on the table. Steve hadn’t noticed it at first and was now trying not to stare, because that would be seriously uncool. “Hey man, I hope you don’t mind I hijacked your kitchen – I made toast.”

He turned, Steve  ** _wasn’t_**  noticing how the movement made the frankly perfect muscles bunch and tighten under his shirt, and grabbed the plate. “You’ll have to eat something, else the pills’ll totally fuck up the lining of your stomach, and I’d feel even  ** _more_**  like shit.” He smiled again, putting the plate on the table and grabbing the arm that was taking up half of the table. “Sorry ‘bout that. I need help to get it on, but Becca had already left for work this morning. It’s one of the new Stark Prosthetics – pretty awesome but it’s a two man job getting it on.” He waved the arm as he talked. It was metal, although probably not really, because that would make it a lot heavier than it obviously was, and the shoulder (where Steve assumed it fit against the pale stump that was poking out of the t-shirt Bucky was wearing) was hollow, with some rubber-looking  band around the inside, and a couple of wires. The other side had a red star decaled on the side, and Steve knew exactly what that was.

“That’s the Winder Soldiers insignia.” He burst out, then felt like a total idiot when Bucky stared at him.

“Holy shit.” The other man said after silence that went on too long. “Holy shit. Dude, you are the first person who ever noticed.” His smile was massive, gleeful. “I mean, like, Becca got it cause she’s had to listen to me go on and on about it for years, but holy  ** _shit_**!” He beamed, beamed like Steve had just made his whole year. “That is so  ** _cool_**.”

Steve found himself shuffling forward, into the same seat that Bucky had cleaned him up in. “I illustrated him a few years back, for a textbook.” Steve admitted. “Um, that’s mostly what I do. I ended up reading more into the whole Red Room thing.”

Bucky put the arm on the table and pulled out the chair opposite Steve. “Fuck me.” He grinned. “That’s awesome. Did you know about the genetic testing they did on him?”

Steve nodded, grabbing a slice of toast. “Yeah – to be honest though I thought the training for the girls was one of the worst things they did to him.”

Bucky swiped a slice of toast and took a big bite. He didn’t have to worry about his beat up face hurting with every mouthful. “Man, that was harsh. I read this online paper, they were trying to argue that the kids were his – they used him to breed the soviet spies in the 40’s, before his programming failed and he escaped.”

Steve hadn’t ever heard of that, and told Bucky as much. “Oh yeah, I mean, they couldn’t prove it, but the argument was pretty solid. They’d found some old papers talking about female ‘volunteers’ who had children while they were in the Red Room programme, but never said anything about who the father was.” He spoke with his mouth full, waving the toast around as he carried on. “Can you imagine what that would have been like? Held hostage, tortured, bred like an animal, then forced to kill?” He swallowed. There were crumbs on the side of his mouth. “Dude was a testament to Brooklyn – no matter how bad it got, he fought back - but Captain America gets all the glory.”

Steve agreed, in a way. “Yeah, but I mean… you can have  ** _two_**  heroes. Cap was a hero. You don’t have to tear him down to build up the Soldier.”

The resulting argument lasted long enough that the pile of toast was gone and Steve’s headache had faded into the background. They were just about to really get into a rant on why Cap vs Soldier propaganda films were a complete butchering of the actual facts surrounding **_both_** men, when Bucky’s phone started buzzing, rattling across the counter-tip where Bucky had placed it.

“Aww, fuck!” Bucky said, after looking at the number. He swiped his thumb over the screen, before lifting it to his ear. “I’m on my way.” He said, getting to his feet. “Nat, I’m standing in the street  _right now_.” He lied. “Traffic is a bitch.” He listened to someone talk on the line for a few seconds, winced, and hung up. “I gotta go,” He said to Steve, looking around. There was a backpack by the kitchen door that wasn’t Steve’s, and a pair of sneakers that Steve wouldn’t be seen dead in – bright green and neon blue.

He wasn’t sure what the protocol was, having an insanely attractive man stay the night at your home – should he offer his number? He watched for a few moments as Bucky struggled with the zipper on his bag, before he realised what the issue was.

“Do you need help getting your arm… on?” He said, lamely.

Bucky paused his fussing, and for a second, Steve thought he’d crossed some unseen line, like maybe he wasn’t supposed to talk about it, or notice.

“You wouldn’t mind?” Bucky said, sounding… relieved. “It’s a fucking hassle.”

“Well, you did spend the night.” Steve shot back, before realising what that sounded like and blushing hard. “I mean… uh…”

Bucky laughed. Warm and unconcerned with Steve’s floundering. “Awesome, Stevie.  ** _Right_**.” He said, dropping his back and pulling his shirt off with one easy movement.

And now Steve had a half-naked, extremely gorgeous, rather muscular man in his kitchen. God must be testing him. “If you can just,” Bucky said, grabbing the arm and twisting it around, “Hold that part steady while I attach these node things.”

The arm was heavier than Steve was expecting, which made him worry about the weight Bucky was carrying around every day. Surely it would make him off balance? He did his best though, his thin arms holding the metal arm steady while Bucky pulled out a mass of wires, which attached to his skin with sticky patches. Steve had seen those on heart monitors in the hospital before. Normally attached to him. “Really appreciate this,” Bucky was saying, sticking (and re-sticking) the pads with precision. It was obvious that they needed to be put in specific places on what was left of his arm. Patches of smooth skin amidst the scars.

And there were a  ** _lot_**  of scars.

When the patches were in place, Bucky grinned. “Alright, all you gotta do now is push it up, fits like a glove.”

It actually took a few tries, their height difference not helping much – but Steve managed to manoeuvre it enough that it did slide on pretty easily. Once in place, Bucky fumbled around with the rubberised band at the top, obviously to stop the metal pinching his skin, and then…

The arm whirred. It sounded a little like Steve’s old laptop when it booted up, and he jerked back in surprise. “There we go!” Bucky grinned, and flexed. Both arms moved. Steve had never seen anything like it, and said as much.

“Oh yeah, it’s all new tech. Pretty cutting edge, although I don’t understand a lot of it. Neuro-pathways or something. In a few years, everyone’ll have something like this – those old plastic prosthetics are a thing of the past.” He grinned, grabbing his t-shirt and covering himself up again. Obviously, the metal arm moved just as easily as his real one, Bucky not seeming to favour either side as he pulled his sneakers on. “Sorry to have to cut on you, but if I don’t get to work soon, Tash’ll rip  ** _both_**  my arms off.”

* * *

 

Steve sat in his kitchen and blinked.

There was a knife sticking out of the block of butter, and a plate covered in crumbs, a single mug in the sink and a really weird emptiness that he’d never felt before lingering around. He blinked, sighed and got to his feet. He needed a shower, he had a painting to finish.

* * *

 

Two weeks past, the bruises on his face had faded enough that they were just a sickly yellow, the scab on his lip healed and nothing but a little pink skin on his palms. He’d handed in his finished paintings to the museum and they’d been happy with the end results, which was good – he hoped that he’d be getting more work from there in the future.

He was standing in line for the teller at the bank when he heard a familiar voice behind him. “Steve?”

* * *

 

Bucky’s girlfriend was equally as good looking as he was. Her brown hair was long and thick, falling in perfect loose curls around her face, only a head shorter than Bucky, and obviously still taller than Steve.

“We’re trying to expand our business.” Bucky was saying, as they say over coffees in the Starbucks next door to the bank. “Trying to find a bank that’ll take a risk aint easy.”

“What is it that you do?” Steve asked, because he’d never through to ask when Bucky was in his kitchen.

“We make props and replicas.” Becca said, cutting over whatever Bucky was about to say. “We started out cos-playing, you know? And it grew from there – people commission us for cons, and a few low budget movies, plays… that kind of thing.” She smiled. She had a full mouth, like Bucky, and Steve was a little taken aback by just how much they looked like one another. He’d heard that couples often started looking similar the longer they were together, and obviously Bucky and Becca were very close. “I do most of the sewing, Bucky used to do all of the painting, but so far this year he’s been doing mostly the accounting and stuff like that.”

“Cos-play?” Steve said, aware he didn’t know a lot of what that entailed. “Like, dressing up?”

“Yea-” Bucky started, but was cut off again.

“Kinda.” Becca said. “But think of it more like… being the character. A lot of people act like they are the person they cos-play as, it’s so cool.” She grinned, fishing out her phone, “This is me as Peggy Carter.” A few swipes of her phone and Steve was looking at a highly accurate portrait of Captain Americas only love. In fact, it was so good, Steve struggled to tell the difference between the coloured photo and the black and white image he’d found when looking up more reference pictures of the Cap. “I made the outfit, Clint did my make-up and hair, Bucky painted the guns and all the little extras.” She leaned over, and swiped a few pictures past. “There’s Bruce as Dum Dum, and Sam was Gabe,” another swipe and Steve nearly choked on his own tongue. “And Bucky as Cap. He wanted to go as The Soldier, but like, that wasn’t gonna work.” She carried on, obviously not aware that the image of Bucky wearing a highly accurate vintage looking Captain America outfit was doing  ** _things_**  to Steve. Jesus Christ, the lord was testing him something hard. The helmet covered Buckys too long dark hair, but kept his square jaw and sinfully plump mouth in the forefront, and Steve’s mouth had gone dry. He’d never thought he had a thing for Captain America before – obviously he’d been wrong. “We actually placed 2nd in the group event.” She said, pulling her phone away. “And our online orders went through the roof.”

“I’d think so.” Steve agreed. “Those outfits look pretty realistic.” He didn’t bother to mention that sex sells, and Bucky looked like… well… sex on a stick. She probably knew. They  ** _were_**  dating after all.

“Ye-”

“We spend a lot of time making sure that we get everything to look just like the originals.” Becca said, looking at her phone one last time before tucking it away. “Buckys’ got a really good eye for details.” She paused. “You probably do too, being a painter and all.”

Steve couldn’t remember telling Becca what he did for a living, and his confusion must have shown on his face, because –

“Oh, Bucky told us about your Captain America painting.” She said, smirking at the man beside her. “And-”

“Hey, Bec, don’t you need a refill or something?” Bucky said, pulling out his wallet. He hadn’t taken off his leather jacket, but his metal hand was clearly visible around his own half full mug of coffee. He’d been using it just the same as his other flesh hand, using both to rip into the muffin that he’d split with Becca.

“Sweet.” She said, sliding out of her chair and grabbing the offered wallet.

“Sorry about her.” Bucky said, once she was in the line to be served. “Sometimes I dream about being an only child.”

Steve paused, watched as Bucky took another drink. “She’s your sister?” He asked after a pause, tried not to hold his breath. Just because they were related didn’t mean Bucky was single. Or gay.

“Yup.” Bucky said, looking over at the queue of people. “She’s 2 years younger than me. Not that you could tell. Sorry, she kinda steamrolls people sometimes.”

Steve nodded, not mentioning that he had assumed they were dating. Now of course, it was  ** _obvious_**  – they looked so much alike that he felt a little stupid assuming something. “I hope you don’t mind me telling her about the painting, I didn’t think it was like… a secret or anything.”

“No, it’s nothing like that.” He said, smiling. “Uh, the museum opens the Captain America collection next week actually, so everyone’ll see it.” He paused. “Although if I’d known you were an  ** _official_**  Captain America cos-player I might have asked you to pose.”

Bucky’s laugh was warm and open, and a few people turned towards them. “Paint me like one of your French girls?” He snorted. “Is **_that_** how you pick people up?”

Steve felt his face heat up almost as soon as he’d finished speaking and by the time Bucky insinuated the Steve was trying to pick him up, his face was the colour of a beat. “Not that I’m saying you’re trying to pick me up, obviously.” Bucky said, smoothly after taking sip of his coffee and a silence that went on too long.

“Hey, Bucky,” Becca said walking over, a take-away cup in her hand. “I gotta get back to the studio. Stuff to do.” She said, glancing at Steve.

“Right,” Bucky said, getting to his feet. “It was nice to see you again, Steve.”

“Don’t you wanna finish your coffee?” Becca said, looking between Bucky and Steve, who was still blushing hard and feeling like a total idiot. Trust him to make Bucky feel uncomfortable.

“You said it, we got a lot to do.” Bucky said, and Steve might not have had a sister, but he knew enough when there was a separate conversation going on with meaningful looks over his head.

“Hey, Steve, you wanna come see what we do?” Becca said, turning to face him and pointedly ignoring her brother. “It’ll be awesome. You can see the Captain America stuff we did.”

* * *

 

Becca kept up a smooth flow of conversation as they walked, chatting about her humble origins as a ‘home sewer’. “I mean, I always loved sewing, but then one year my boyfriend wanted me to make him a Halloween costume and it went from there.” She paused. “And Bucky wanted a replica Starfleet uniform.”

“Becca!”

“What?” She said, grinning. “Embrace the nerd.”

The building they stopped at looked like any number of identical places Steve saw around Brooklyn, it looked like an old garage – except the sign over the metal doors.

“The Howling Commandoes?” He asked, looking over at Bucky. “I thought you were a Winter Soldier fan?”

“Oh Jesus, don’t get him started on that!” Becca groaned, walking through the side door. “Seriously. Unless you wanna listen to the theory that the ‘Soldier was actually a member of the commandoes, and none other than the childhood friend of Captain America, and that’s how he broke through years of soviet brainwashing cause of  ** _True Love_**.”

“That’s actually a pretty popular theory though.” Steve said, following her inside. “It explains why Cap wouldn’t fight him at the end,  ** _and_**  why he dropped the shield.”

“ ** _See?_** ” Bucky crowed, from behind him, obviously this must have been a long running argument.

“Oh my god.” Becca groaned. “I do not deserve this kind of punishment.”

Inside was brightly lit, with cream coloured walls and a nice looking couch, a coffee table with a few comics on top – and an unmanned desk. “We used to try to keep someone on the door all the time,” Bucky explained, “But now all of our work is online, so it’s not really needed. We keep it up though, just in case.”

Becca hadn’t stopped, and walked through another door. “This is where the magic happens.”

* * *

 

That was the first thing Steve noticed. Mess. Clutter.

Two guys were arguing beside what looked like a giant man made of red and gold. Another carefully cutting shapes out of polystyrene foam with a massive knife. A woman with red hair was doing something with a battery pack and yards and yards of wires.

“Hey!” Becca called out, “We’re back!”

The two guys arguing over the giant didn’t stop, but the woman and guy with the massive knife did, looking up. “We met Steve at the bank.” She explained, walking over to the man with the knife. “The Steve Bucky tried to kill with a heart attack at the zombie run.” She grinned, causing Steve to blush. Obviously that story had made the rounds too. “So, this is Bruce, he does all the moulding and casting, and Natasha’s the one who wires everything up, so we can have lights and working parts. The big blond is Thor, he’s our metal worker, mostly he does things like swords and stuff – and he’s yelling at Sam, who does all the construction and big props.” She looked around. “Clint works part time, he does all the wigs and make-up.”

“Steve who paints?” Natasha said, walking over.

“Yeah.” Bucky cut in. “How’s the lighting for the reactor going?”

* * *

 

An hour later, Steve was standing watching as Thor, who had biceps bigger than Steve’s waist, talked him through the forging of props. “Sometimes they want something for display, in their homes, or offices – or as a set piece for a movie.” He was explaining. “But mostly people want things they can use to cos-play.”

“Why can’t they cos-play with the stuff you make? Wouldn’t that be more… real?”

“Indeed. However, unless they were **_truly_** mighty, I doubt they’d be able to carry a 50 inch solid steal sword all day without the weight being an issue.” He passed Steve a sword that had been leaning against a metal rack. “This is Frostmourne.”

He made it look easy, as though the sword was light as a feather, but Steve wasn’t fooled. It took him three tries to lift it properly, and even then, both his arms were shaking with the strain. Thor grinned. “Not the best for conventions, as you can see.”

“Point taken.” Steve said, handing the weapon back.

“Buchanan told us he gave you quite a fright on the Zombie Run.” Thor said, once he’d placed the sword back on the rack. “I hear tell you were in quite a bad way.”

“Yeah,” Steve admitted, looking over at where Bucky was now arguing with Sam, pointing out something on the giant steel man with both hands. “I still haven’t thanked him. Or apologised.”

“I think that will not be needed.” Thor grinned. “The way I hear it, you were a vastly interesting companion, Buchanan talked of nothing else for days.” He paused. “I believe he had hoped to receive your number, but failed to acquire it.” He looked at Steve pointedly.

“Oh.” Steve said, eyes going back to where Bucky stood. “ ** _Oh_**.”

* * *

 

“Hey.” Steve said, an hour or so later once he’d been passed around the workspace like a shiny new toy. It seemed that Thor wasn’t the only one who thought Bucky wouldn’t have minded Steve trying to get to know him better, and when he finally ended up at the station Bucky used to paint, he’d made up his mind. After all, all Bucky could say was no, right? And Steve might have been shy, but he wasn’t a coward.

“Hey Steve.” Bucky was saying, not looking up from where he was carefully applying gold paint to a metal hoop. His metal finger tips had small speckles of gold on them, and for some reason, that made Steve smile.

“Hey. It’s, uh, it’s getting a little late.” He said, trying to stop himself from pulling at the hem of his jacket. “I was gonna go get something to eat. If you wanna come?”

Bucky paused. “Like a date?”

“Uh, yeah? If you wanna?” Steve tacked on, quickly. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d asked anyone out ever, and he’d certainly never asked anyone as good looking as Bucky before. He wouldn’t have even attempted it if it hadn’t been for the very unsubtle way Bucky’s friends had let him know that the other man might actually be into him.

“Yeah.” Bucky said, looking up with a grin. “Uh, just let me get this cleaned up.”

* * *

 

The Italian place wasn’t too fancy, and could easily have passed for a ‘who guys just hanging out’ kind of joint, but Steve liked it. They spent four hours talking about everything, from their shared interest in World War II heroes to their love of sci-fi. They disagreed on a few things – Bucky thought Stargate was better than Farscape, and Steve didn’t understand why Bucky liked romance novels.

“But that’s the thing, that’s **_why_** they’re great.” He was explaining. “You know, no matter what, in the end, it’ll all work out.”

“It’s predictable.” Steve countered. “You know in the end they’ll be together – all the suspense is gone.”

“There’s enough pain and angst in real life.” Bucky grinned, his knee knocking against Steve’s. “Aint nothing wrong with wanting a perfect ending, gives you  ** _hope_**.”

* * *

 

When they parted ways, Steve had a number programmed into his phone and a stupid smile playing on his lips the whole way back to his apartment.

* * *

 

“I look stupid.”

“You look amazing. The hair is perfect. Clint is amazing.”

“I don’t see why I’ve got to be Chekov.”

“Cause you know a Russian accent gets me going?”

“TMI! Anyway, you’re the only one who looks young enough for it.”

Steve looked down at his yellow shirt and sighed. His hair had been curled into curls and he had to admit, he did look pretty good. It was just a bit disheartening because Bucky got to McCoy. And looked... well...

He sighed. Those were some seriously tight pants.

“I don’t know why I let you talk me into this.” Steve groused. His pants were just as tight, and he didn’t look half as good in them as Bucky did.

“Because you love us?” Becca said, fixing her blond wig in place.

Steve shot her a dark look. Of course, she looked amazing. He’d come to find out that no matter what, the Barnes siblings always looked good. They’d convinced him to wear a lot of costumes in the year he’d been dating Bucky. As professionals in the industry, they needed to be seen at pretty much every event.

“Cause it’s your first time at SDCC and you’re going to love it.” Bucky countered, leaning close. “And you look super hot. I dig the hair.”

Steve elbowed him in the ribs and got a snort of laughter from his boyfriend. “You are the worst.”

“Urgh, stop flirting for like 5 seconds.” Becca whined.

Bucky kissed him just to spite his sister.

Steve couldn’t find it in him to care.

Those were **_really_** tight pants.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I really liked writing this!  
> Although I can't get as much writing done (for various reasons) I hope this tides everyone over till the next post!  
> Thank you for all the kind comments, it means the world to me.
> 
> And the idea of skinny Steve cos-playing Chekov kinda has to be the best mental image I ever had. So... yeah. Now you can think of that too.


End file.
